Monarch and Scholar

Broken
         in soul
         in body
         in mind.
The flood took all water, all seas of tears with it
         leaving behind drought, desert, a barren land
         where no love grows
For 35 months the drought went on
        whispering to us in our sleep
        "There is no hope, no savior,
        no water, no rain,
        curse your gods, no rain, no reign."
For 35 months the sands shifted
         burying cities founded on apathy
         "No more,"
                   cried the sand,
         "no more shall we be idle,
         shall we ignore the wind,
         shall we remain pathetic,
         no more."
The Monarch's palace decayed,
         her courtesans drowned in sand
         her garden burned in the sun
         the roses burned most brightly.
The Monarch stood,
         high in the tallest tower,
         looking over her dying wealth.
The Crow emerged behind her,
         clicking his nails and stroking her hair,
         "My work here is done,
         but I will linger here,
         in your ruin and regicide,
         to watch the Final Evening,
         to see you as an equal,
         to stand victorious over you,
         if only for an evening."
Regicide,
         gunpowder,
         metal,
         mistakes,
         failure,
         flintlock,
         toss it away,
         the botched self-assassination,
         throw it with the other unspeakable words ending in –cide.
The Monarch stood,
         high in the tallest tower,
         watching her ocean.
         Every day a new landscape,
         as sands shifted with the wind,
         the inconsolable wind.
For 33 months the Monarch stared,
         painted,
         wrote,
         pleaded with fate,
         wished for her riches and squalor and rabble.
For 33 months the seed of doubt trembled,
         broke,
         rose,
         rose,
         rose as only roses can,
         and sprouted.
"I brought this for you,"
         the goddess whispered,
         pointing to the bloom.
         "In 24 hours, a woman will arrive,
         treat her not as you would treat me,
         do not repeat thy past mistakes,
         treat her as an equal,
         not a greater."
The Monarch heeded the warning of the goddess,
         standing watch outside her tower at the fatal time.
         First came, not a speck on the horizon,
         not the sound of footsteps in the sand,
         first came the total,
         the entirety of the guest sidestepped into the Monarch's view,
         startling her.
The Monarch stood tall,
         stood proud,
         stood malnourished and coated in dust,
         "I am the empress of these lands,"
         she uttered,
         "speak your name."
The guest stood comfortably,
         stood secretive,
         stood with grace,
        "I am the Scholar from a faraway land,"
        she uttered,
         "I look upon thy works, ye mighty, and I despair."
"As you well should,
        although,
         you look familiar,
         Scholar,
         as if I had known you
         in a life previous.
         I feel at ease with you."
The Scholar resided in the tower, sitting among the sand and dust.
         "I would like to admit to being greater than when last we met,"
         the Monarch called,
         "in another life."
The Monarch was thin,
         looking deceptively aged,
         sleepless,
         dreamless,
         dirty outside and in.
"I feel at ease with you,"
         she whispered,
         "as I did before, in my garden.
         Only in my garden
         among the roses."
When the Scholar spoke of her lover in a faraway land,
         the Monarch grew increasingly morose.
         Jealousy can topple kingdoms
         sink entire cities in sand
         make girls out of empresses
         who reach to grasp at forbidden fruit
         the richest of all.
"I feel,"
         the Monarch whispered,
         "as if in the life previous,
         you and I
         were lovers."
"We died then,"
          the Scholar scolded,
         "it is in the past."
"I worry,"
         said the Monarch,
         "that my decadence may prove shameful
         for a traveler such as yourself,
         if we are to rule together."
"No, you needn't worry."
         rang the cold, conflicted words of the Scholar,
         "for I have a lover in a faraway land,
         a lover in this life."
And over time the Monarch grew worse,
         as a lost love flooded her hollow bones,
         and she found herself deeply enamored,
         hopelessly and depressingly.
The Scholar
         on the other hand,
         shrouded herself in mystery,
         never revealing any feeling
         never revealing a flower bloomed long ago
         in a life previous.
One night,
         the Scholar approached the Monarch's chambers
         and caught her weeping.
         "Oh, I must seem such a child,"
         the Monarch sobbed, "weeping over a love previous."
"No, not a child,"
         the Scholar cooed.
         "Not a child at all."
The Monarch cried still,
         "A child I am,
         fearing the absence of love,
         believing in the unlikely rekindling."
"Do you wish to know?"
Words rang throughout the desert
Do you wish to know?
For if you do, I will tell you.
Oh, how I wish to know.
Do it.

You


Should



Not




Be





Afraid






And the flood receded

The desert blossomed

Life returned.

"I have a lover in a faraway land."